For My Brother
by ThreeLegMeg
Summary: The backstory of the Metal Masked Assassin and Agent 216, his brother. From the pov of 216. M for torture, killing, and other pretty messed up stuff.
1. Loss and Gain

"_Your_ brother." She would say. "You have to take care of your brother. I might not be here for you both. You have to keep him safe."

My mother looked like me. Her hair was brown, and matted, like mine. Her eyes were blue, and listless, like mine. She was beautiful, even if her eyes were sunken and her bones showed through her skin. Beautiful, even covered in dirt and fear. I don't know how she managed to smile, but when she clung to me, holding me to her chest and swollen stomach, she did. And sometimes I could too.

My mother and I lived outside, in a caged enclosure usually used for large dogs. She told me when she was taken here, she was pregnant with me and had me here. She said my dad had been killed by the Man here. I felt sorry for my brother; the Man had made my mother pregnant with him. His father would be a devil. But mother said I still should care for my brother. Because, she said "Its not his fault he's being born. He needs to be protected. You have to protect him. Keep your brother safe."

Keep him safe.

When I woke up my mother was screaming. I could tell she wasn't trying to, trying her best to keep silent, but childbirth isn't easy.

"Babydoll… Your brother is coming… You need to remember what I told you…" She hissed. Her face was covered in sweat and she was pale. I didn't understand. I rested my head on her shoulder and she hugged me, trying to squeeze away her pain. Tears rand down my face, I didn't know what was happening. "Its okay babydoll… its gonna be okay." She would whisper between cries.

Then her arms fell loose around me. I knew she had died, but I was more afraid of why my brother wasn't crying. I crawled, scooping him into my arms. I was still small myself, mom had said I was no more than five, though she wasn't completely sure. It was hard to keep track of time.

I tore the cord with a rock and cradled my brother, who was pale, almost blue, underweight and completely silent. His hair was silvery gray. I shook badly with fear, unsure of what to do, trying to keep him warm. Was he breathing? Was he even alive? I held my breath and listened; he breathed, just barely. He was so frail.

This was when the Man came outside. I wrapped my arms around my brother tightly, desperately trying to keep him to myself, distrusting of what He would do to him. But I was small, and he was big, and he pried him from me with force, causing my brother to start crying. I screamed, and wailed, but there was no use. Only a few minutes into his life and I had already failed him and the promise I made to him, and to my mother. He took my brother into the house, and I would be forced to wait and see.


	2. Eat

Despite my best efforts I had fallen asleep. But when I awoke my brother was beside me, cleaned and dressed. But even dressed I was scared he had fozen in the night, until I heard his soft cries. I scrambled to his side, holding him to me, trying to keep him warm.

My mothers body was gone. The Man must have taken her away when he brought my brother back. I cursed myself quietly for falling asleep, but at least no harm had come to him in my weakness.

Beside the cage door was a bottle, tossed carelessly onto its side. Considering it a blessing, I fed my brother, praying it would keep it quiet. The Man inside didn't like a lot of noise from me or my mother, too much talking or crying meant beatings, and an infant certainly couldn't survive that.

In a moment, now with my brother truly in my keeping, my reality set in.

I was alone. I knew nothing. Nothing of taking care of myself, nothing of taking care of a baby. My mother was gone, and we didn't stand a chance. It wasn't fair. How could she die when I needed her, when my brother needed her? It wasn't _fair_. I dried my face, knowing that there was no point. All I could do was try. And I would, for my brother.

When the man came to the door I scuffled into a back corner, as far as I could from him. It wasn't out of the ordinary for him to kick me if I got in the way, so I learned quickly to stay away whenever he entered. He simply placed a large bowl of cooked meat.

I knew what it was. We never got cooked meat unless something had died in the yard. I choked back my tears, knowing he didn't want to see or hear them.

"You'll eat it. You won't get anything else." He said, and he left.

I did eat. Not at first. But I ate. It took two days for me to give in. After the first few pieces I vomited, and I thought I'd rather starve. But I couldn't. Not with my brother relying on me. And so I stomached it, and I ate.

A baby, however, cannot eat cooked meat. The Man seemed to understand this, and would provide us with full bottles every day. I figured he must be raising up my brother for the same purpose as myself, for his fighting. My brother was so frail looking I wondered if he would ever survive a fight, even when he was older. But mother had said I was frail too, and I always won in the fights…

The fights always took place in another yard. He would load me into the back seat of a rusty old truck and tell me to stay quiet. Don't make a fuss. Just keep quiet and calm. Then we would arrive at a big grassy lot, with a cage in the middle. There was other men, there with their fighters. There was rules, you could only fight once, and you had to pin your fighter against someone close to the same age and size. The fight ended when one was unresponsive. They would usually die.

I hated the fights, but I was usually rewarded after them, so even if it hurt it wasn't too bad. When I fought well, and I always did, we would be given lots of food, a real meal as my mother called it.

I tried to shake off these thoughts. My brother wouldn't fight until he was grown more, fighters had to be at least 4 or 5, and a certain weight. It would be a long time until then.

With my brother cradled safely in my lap, I fell asleep, half curled into the back corner of my cage, dreaming of escape.


	3. Close Calls and Beatings

Time passed. My brother was sick frequently and each time I defended him.

In the middle of the night, my brother would cough. As much as I tried to silence him, I knew it was no use. He couldn't help his coughing. But the man never seemed to understand that. When he would come out to beat him, I would wrap my arms around my brother to shield him from the blows, he was still too young to take beatings. He was much bigger than he was when he was born, if I heard the man correctly, he was two, and I was seven. But he was still too small. I couldn't let him get hurt.

I tried to stifle my cries as the man's foot connected with my ribs. I could feel bruises forming where he struck, not caring that I was taking the beating in place of my brother, who cried silently beneath me, purely from fear. He simply wanted to take out his anger, and whether it was on me or my brother was not important to him. I had always understood this, remembering the times where my mother would shield me the same way when I cried or spoke too loudly. It didn't matter to him.

Finally he grew bored of this assault and wandered back inside. My brother was still trembling, and I hushed him, trying to make sure he wouldn't cry. "Its okay, its okay brother… I'm okay…" I wasn't sure if I was lying, my entire body ached and I was sure I was a bleeding mess. But I said so anyways. "I'll be okay, be quiet. I'll be okay."

My brother was only two, and had never known what life was like outside of a cage, but he seemed to know something was wrong. That this wasn't how it was meant to be. I had never been free, but my mother had described it, and it sounded wonderful. No one struck you, and you ate all the time, whenever you wanted. You could get water whenever you wanted too. And there were soft, warm places to sleep. Sometimes I would try to describe it to him, when he was upset, that someday we would have that. Sometimes, it helped us both.

The next morning was a fight. He loaded me and my brother into the backseat of his pickup. We wore real clothes, and were able to clean ourselves before the trip. That was the good thing about the fights.

Keep quiet, he'd say. And we did, my brother had learned the meaning of that quickly, and the repercussions of not following that instruction.

This drive, however, was different. About halfway to the fighting area, I heard loud noises, it sounded whiny; I hated it. Some lights flashed behind us too, and I glanced behind me to see some black and white car just behind us. The man swore under his breath, and pulled over. "Don't you say one fucking word, either of you." The man spat. "I'll kill you both."

A man dressed in black approached the truck window, and started speaking with the Man. The one in black said something about speeding, but I could barely pay attention; I was too afraid, trying to keep quiet. The Man left the car with the man in black, and they talked some more behind us.

After a few minutes, the man came back to the window and peered in on us. His eyebrows were furrowed, and I was worried maybe he was angry with us. "Son, is everythin' alright back here?" He asked me. I held my tongue, just nodding at him. However, he didn't seem to believe me. "Everythin's alright son, your dads just getting a quick ticket for speedin'." I almost said that he wasn't my dad, but the Mans threat echoed in my head, and I simply nodded again. "Are ya sure everythin's alright with you? Youre lookin a little sick." I suddenly felt very aware of the bruises hidden beneath my new shirt.

To this day, I hate myself for my answer. "Everythings fine."

The man in black drove away, and we were back on our way to the fight. Even though it seemed like he was in trouble with the man in black, the Man didn't seem very angry, and I was relieved. I figured I must have done well, and me and my brother would be okay, for now at least.

My brother had seen me in a few fights before, sitting on the sidelines while I was in the ring. I had grown to almost enjoy the fights, or at the very least had grown used to them.

This fight was no different. I was put into the ring with another boy, slightly bigger than me. He made the first lunge, but I knew better than that. I slipped out of his path, bashing the back of his head with my elbow, and he fell to the ground. From there it was a mindless wrestle, throwing reckless punches, landing blows randomly, biting, tearing, scratching, gouging.

I was already exhausted and sore from my beating last night. But when I saw my brother watching me, and knew of what would happen if he were left alone, I lost all my aching.

The boys body lay limp beneath mine and I was called off and out of the ring. I remained the winner, and would now be able to rest and watch the other fights, bruised, bloody and broken, but with my brother by my side.


	4. Memories Good and Bad

[NOTE: There is a POV switch halfway through this chapter. The story will be from MMA's point of view from there on.]

My brother was now old enough to fight. He had toughened up and stopped getting sick so often, but he was still a bit small and he didn't know how to fight. Most days we would spend our days play wrestling, trying to keep quiet, but it was hard when these were the only times we would laugh. Sometimes I'd still be asleep when my brother would pounce on me, but I was never angry. I wanted him to be strong.

Most times I would let him win, wanting to encourage him. Other times I would pin him to show him how to get out of it, or show him holds that are nearly impossible to break. I knew all the best ways to fight, and he needed to know as well.

The Man didn't seem to mind that we did this, which was a relief. He always wanted us to win our fights, so I think he liked that I was training my brother. I just wanted him to be safe. And it was sort of fun, playing like that, you could almost forget what our situation was.

**[POV switch]**

My older brother was kind to me. On more than one occasion he had defended me from the Man, or in fights, if I were too sick. He promised of escape frequently, and I trusted him. I loved my brother.

He was smart. He could come up with games and different ways to play so we could pass time till our next fight.

The fights. I loved the fights. I loved fighting, I loved being in them. I had been fighting a few years, and each kill made me feel more powerful. I loved fighting, and I loved watching my brother fight. I didn't care as much when I had to watch strangers fight strangers, but when my brother would fight you could see his strength easily. Most opponents didn't stand a chance.

For a while, at least.

As we got older my brother seemed to get sicker. Some days he could hardly move, and I couldn't wrestle with him as we usually did. But even on days like that, he would sit and talk with me, and silently we would laugh. My brother was the only thing in the world that could make me laugh.

But it changed.

We came back after a particularly bad fight. My brother and I were bloody to bits, just trying to rest back in our cage, tending to our wounds and regaining strength. My brother had a black eye and a split lip, and I was about the same, both of us bruised, yet content.

My brother heard the man approach first, urging me to the back of the cage like he always did. He stayed in front of me, guarding me from the Man, even if he was sick and hurt.

Normally the Man would come to give us food and water like this, sometimes even a new blanket, but this time, he approached us. I could feel myself panicking, bracing myself for a random beating, but instead he grabbed only for my brother, yanking him roughly by the arm. Brother yelped in pain, struggling against the Mans grip, but he was weakened and ill and had little fight left in him. I started to scream, fearing the worst, but was quickly kicked into silence.

My brother used to talk about how the Man would drag my Mother into the house and bring her back the next morning. He wasn't sure what happened inside, Mother wouldn't say.

Hopelessly, I watched my brother dragged inside the same way.


	5. Burn and Start Again

When my brother came back he wasn't the same. He didn't talk much, when he did he complained of body aches, throat aches, head aches… But he would never say what happened. The process repeated and each time my brother came back more sullen and lifeless.

It infuriated me. I had always been angry, angry about where we were, and what was happening. Going hungry, thirsty, being beat and left in the cold; it was all infuriating. But this… this was so much more. He had changed my brother, destroyed what he was. He didn't smile anymore, he didn't speak anymore, he couldn't play anymore, and it was the mans fault. He took my brother from me. And it filled me with rage.

When the man would go outside, I would scream, yell, swear, bark, trying to get to him. I had no dignity left, he took that, and I'd take his life as an animal would if it meant revenge. I'd scale the inside of the cage and squeeze my arms through the spaces, swinging claws and baring teeth, as my brother looked on at me with wide eyed shock.

The man seemed to take little mind of this, to my dismay. I hated him more for ignoring me, and with every new day I made my threats louder, wilder. I was slipping, I hardly felt like a person, and I didn't care, I would let it happen. I was never meant to be human.

I assume the man had heard enough; one morning he finally acknowledged me, approaching the side of the cage calmly, with a mug in his hand.

"Get the fuck down." He ordered, looking frustrated. "Tired'a your barkin." I didn't listen of course, I yelled over him, reaching for him. I'd claw his eyes out if I could just reach. I didn't.

Before I knew what had happened I felt a blinding, burning pain across my face, along my eyes. I screamed and dropped like a fly, falling hard on my back as I clutched my face. My brother screamed with me, not in pain, but in fear, and was at my side quickly.

I clawed at my face and the burning persisted, longer than I thought it should. My brother held down my hands, trying to keep me from furthering the damage and poured water over my face and eyes. Eventually the pain subsided, I opened my eyes and felt overwhelming relief when I could still see. The man had dropped and shattered the cup he had used to splash me with. My brother sat over me, looking horrified, tears streaming down his face.

"What is wrong with you…?" He said quietly. I didn't know.

He held me tightly to him for the first time since he had gone inside, and I realized it didn't matter. I was a disfigured monster, I had no humanity left. But it was okay. My brother and I were broken together, but we could manage like that.

After a silence, my brother stood again. I was afraid of what he may say, but he said nothing. Instead, he went to the edges of our cage, stretching his arm through the links and pulling in empty beer cans littered around. With a large rock, he flattened them, slowly, a tedious job but I watched the whole thing as he crushed and shaped the aluminum. Then, he fitted it over my face, careful as to not cut me or hurt my fresh burns. The metal mask could hide most of my burns which was… a relief; I didn't want him or anyone else to see them. They were mine, and no one elses to see.

I waited until my brother slept. The night was cold; I knew it would rain that and we would sleep through it as best we could through the wet and the wind. But my rage was still intense, I was desperate, mindless. Craving revenge. And so I waited, and while my brother slept I crept to the side of the cage.

At first I simply yanked on the lock, of course to no avail. The lock was rusted and shoddy but the pulling alone would do nothing. I tried using the shattered pieces of mug, the one used to disfigure me. But the bits weren't strong enough.

In the end it was a bone. An animal bone I had scavenged from one of our meals and stashed in dirt. I jammed a sharp end into the opening, forcing until the lock gave out and fell away into my palm.

I sat with the lock in my hand for what felt like hours. The door was open just a few inches before me. But open. Not open to let the bad in… but to let me and my brother out. But I had to act first. I pulled the bone from the lock and dropped the rusty piece to the ground.

Inside the house was warm. It smelled terrible, like bitter smoke and something rotting. The paneled walls inside were lined with animal heads mounted on ornate plaques. In glass cases sat guns and knives and bones and other strange treasures I couldn't identify. Quietly I lifted the top of the case. Any of these would serve me better than the bone I already had.

A gun would kill too quickly, and I wouldn't know how to use any of them anyways. Instead I chose a knife, serrated. I ran my thumb across it, drawing blood with no struggle. Good.

I crept into the mans room, silent as a ghost. As I hovered over his bed, I realized I had run this scene through my head one thousand times before. But it was different. I thought my heart would be pounding in my ears, I thought my hands would shake. I thought there would be struggle. Instead I felt nothing. No fear, no hesitation. Because I had every reason, every right to kill this man. For what he had done.

For my brother.

I don't know how many times the knife plunged his flesh. After the first stab he let out a scream, struggling, fighting me for the knife, but he was losing blood quickly and was disoriented, drunken. The thrusts went in clean like butter, and the knife dragged and tore as it pulled back out. He had fallen still long before I stopped, his body mutilated nearly beyond recognition. The man was dead, and as the realization set in a feeling of relief crashed over me. I felt euphoric.

It was over, all over. The man was dead, my brother who raised me would have the freedom he deserved. We could leave, we could have food, and beds. It would be okay now.

When I went back to wake my brother it was raining. He shook in the cold, already dripping wet.

"Brother." I spoke, setting a bloodstained hand on his shoulder. "Brother. Wake up."

When he looked at me he seemed terrified, worried about all the blood. I must have been a sight; a blood and rain-soaked masked figure in the night. He stared for a moment, and when he found I was unharmed, his look became quizzical.

I merely nodded, and he understood. Quickly he got to his feet, and together we went back inside.

The first thing we did was scope out the house. We showered, and changed into fresh clothes, then ate our fill of what was in the fridge. For the first time my brother in a long time my brother smiled, and we laughed and relaxed inside, dry, warm, and safe. We stayed in a spare bed in a side room, piled with as many blankets and pillows as we could find, and we slept out the rainy night in a pile.

The next morning we ate once more, and discussed what we would do. Neither of us wanted to stay, nor felt like we could. This place was cursed with years of torment and evil, and neither of us felt it was right to remain. And anyways, we didn't want to deal with the dead body in the master bedroom.

We packed knives, guns, food, and clothes into a large back pack, and blankets and water in another. We talked briefly over where to go, and chose to simply follow the road as far as we could.

And so, we did. And as we walked from our prison, we did not look back. Not even once.


End file.
